


Jigsaw Feelings

by werewolfologist



Series: Losers of our Lives [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Myra Kaspbrak, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Character Study, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh Are Best Friends, Eddie and Myra aren't together but...you know, Emotional Manipulation, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Reddie, Slice of Life, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Suicidal Ideation, graphic description of suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfologist/pseuds/werewolfologist
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is just trying to stay alive at this point.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Losers of our Lives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112495
Kudos: 30





	Jigsaw Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @bevvzombie on twitter. The title is a rip from the Siouxsie and the Banshees song of the same name.
> 
> Thank you to my clowntown friends on twitter, particularly Miles :) luv u dude.
> 
> This fic has a playlist (two, actually)!! You can listen here:
> 
> Richie Tozier's Radio (Half) Hour: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sxO3jR30aBrZc8UwIK11O?si=DqONtFnfTOe3SL0rlORcPw
> 
> Eddie’s a Reformed Goth (jk, he’s still goffick): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5aU1lwvPsh3HrJuVtiBE0Y?si=FGZw-CjMSTCnwkVDMsepdg

**Eddie Kaspbrak knew he** was gay when he almost married a woman. He _knew it_ but he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, he _could_ , of course, but not without major fallout. General homophobia being only the tip of the consequential iceberg. When he proposed to her, it was at a point in his life where he began to repress everything that threatened to outcast him, desperately trying not to lose what made him look normal. However, he knew Myra didn’t deserve this. Myra wasn’t a _good person_ by any sane human's standards but she didn’t deserve a one-sided lavender marriage. 

Plus, his mother liked her. 

Eddie shuddered at the thought of her— _Mom, or Myra?_ Doesn’t matter, they’re just alike. Controlling, manipulative, self-centered, and, most of all, Eddie unwillingly lived to placate them. He was their little _pet_ . Their little teacup chihuahua, whatever the fuck, bred to be gawked at and die. Genetically engineered to live a painful life just so some uncaring white woman can show him off and say, “ _Look at what I got!_ ” 

Another shudder shot through him, preceded by a burst of the type of despair he hadn’t felt in literal years. It pulsed out of him, it weighed him down. He was on the subway commute home, the train wasn’t packed, the demographic struck between civil servants and stoned teenagers coming back from, or going to, a show. He had the sudden urge to collapse on the hard rubber flooring and somehow die. 

_Maybe when I get off the train I could jump onto the tracks and hope no one saves me._

He knew he couldn’t do that, he wasn’t going to try. 

In a way, he always wanted to die, even when he was a kid and especially _after_ he got to New York. It’s not because he didn’t like the city but because he was hit with the realization that, no matter how far he went, he would never be able to get away from his tyrannical mother. Sonia called four times a week when Eddie was away at school and if he missed _one_ day she would blow up, scold him, tell him he’s a selfish child, and say something along the lines of “You’d rather I just keel over, wouldn’t you?” 

On special occasions, she would even fake illness to get her son to drive however many hours just to take care of her. ‘Cause who else would do it? 

_No one, that’s who_. She refused all home care that wasn’t her son. No senior homes or live-in caregivers for poor, old Sonia Kaspbrak. 

In his junior year of college, Eddie took a second attempt on his own life. The first one was in sophomore year of high school when Sonia all but locked him in his room for a week and a half because she found out he was still getting letters from his friend who moved to Arizona the semester prior. She had thrown all the letters out and intercepted any that would’ve been delivered until they stopped coming.

This second time though, there was no direct causation. He was living how he wanted to and felt somewhat sane for the first time in his life. But he spiraled anyway. He thought maybe it was the compounding of trauma, obligation, and realizing that placating his mother was a fool’s errand. A constant labor with little payout; pushing a boulder up a hill. A Sisyphean tragedy.

He broke down. He couldn’t take it. He slit his wrists down the middle and waited…

Of course, he didn’t die. 

Panic had set in as his vision blurred and he caught sight of all the blood pooling below him. He screamed, one of those raspy screams that only come out of a person when they’re truly terrified and incoherent. 

His roommate, Bev, found him and called an ambulance.

The subway car jostled, as Eddie stared intently at these pale white marks. He wore long sleeves to cover them. People usually wouldn't ask about them but you’d get the occasional asshole asking ‘What happened there?’ and he’d do anything to avoid that. He pulled it up a bit more to look at the rest of the indented scar tissue that started just below the palm.

The train screeched to a halt, Eddie tugged down his sleeve and took up his bag. It’s his stop. 

The station wasn’t that crowded either. Maybe because it was just past 10 PM, maybe because it was snowing out. Eddie didn’t know nor did he care. All he cared about at this moment was the biting cold enveloping him— it felt nice, it grounded him. 

_Maybe I could lie in the snow and freeze to death._

No, Eddie, you can’t do that. You have obligations.

_But do I care about them?_

Not likely. 

He did not lie in the snow. He walked home, like always. 

The stark light in the empty apartment contented and condemned the man. This place would never change, even if he were to make some kind of aesthetic alteration to it, he didn’t believe it’d make a difference. It wouldn’t _truly change._ The energy would stay just as hollow and mirthless. 

That was a ridiculous sentiment and he knew it.

He could physically alter his space and make it different, so what kept him from that? This place was his to change as long as it’s within lease guidelines. The walls had blue accents from the last owner. Eddie hated blue, especially this light electric shade. It was supposed to be a _calming_ color but the mere branding of blue as a _calming_ color made Eddie so _un_ calm just at the sight of it. ‘You’re supposed to be at peace,’ blue said. ‘Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,’ he spat back.

He much more liked a deep red color, maybe a pale orange.

Eddie loved the freedom of being alone but hated the loneliness of it. Maybe he just liked being away from Myra. It’d been 4 months since he’d broken off their engagement. It was the best decision he’d ever made for himself but it made him feel immeasurably guilty. He had blamed the failed relationship on Sonia’s death, 7 months beforehand, and _not_ the fact that he was homosexual. But— no, that’s not what he meant. He meant that the only reason he was going to marry her was that he wanted to make her and more so, Sonia happy. The only reason they started dating was that when they first met, he was in recovery and _desperate_ for normalcy and, subconsciously, what he considered normal was being mentally abused. 

He knows that’s not normal. 

He blamed the stress of his mother’s death for why he broke it off with Myra. That’s the story he told her. In actuality, Sonia’s death was a wake-up call: she could no longer control him from six-feet under. She can’t feign illness while worms ate the soft tissue of her decomposing face. And Myra would wind up just the same eventually. No matter how long he pushed down the misery and swallowed every day with her until they were fucking eighty-five like bitter cold medicine, it didn’t make a difference; the witch is dead, so why create a new one? What’s the point of putting yourself through the torture? 

_No point._

But Myra was a tenacious soul and almost every day after he left her, she would call him or show up at Eddie’s office, or interrogate what few friends he had left to find out where he lived now… the thought of it made him nauseous. Sometimes, when his anxiety got really bad and he was sitting up at 3 AM, his brain would conjure the image of her barging in and dragging him back into the hostile mundanity of their lives together. 

Thankfully, she hadn’t found his apartment yet or, had seen him face to face since he broke it off. 

The first few weeks, he’d answer her calls on occasion, to try to calm her down and get her to understand why he didn’t want to be with her without telling her she’s a poor excuse for a person or that he liked men. 

But, as the saying goes, _‘You can’t reason with a headless man…’_

 _Wo_ man, in this case, but that's beside the point.

The day he cracked and yelled at her for the first time, he had been staying with Bev while apartment hunting. Before then, Bev didn’t know he _hadn’t_ blocked Myra’s number yet. 

Eddie had been power walking from the subway when she called, he thought they’d be done by the time he got home but, by the time he locked the door behind him, Myra was still hollering.

“Myra, please, listen to me. You have to stop—“

One could clearly hear the woman on the other end, even without speakerphone, “ _No,_ Edward, you listen to me! You don’t get to leave me miserable without an explanation!”

He walked into the kitchen, and was shocked to find Beverly there, in her own home, “I‘ve _given_ you an explaina—“

“No, you haven’t. Not a good one, at least!” Myra criticized. Bev shook her head and pulled two bottles of wine from the freezer.

“Well, what the fuck constitutes a good explanation for you?” He shouted.

“Edward Kaspbrak, if you’re going to talk to me like that there’s no reason I should listen to you!”

There was a long silence, Eddie wanted to reach through the phone and shake her. He evened out his voice to be customer service levels of calm, “You know what? Let me give you a good reason for leaving.”

“If you’re done being rude, I’m all ears.”

Bev leaned one arm on the tile counter, trying to hide her amusement with concern.

“I left you because you're an insincere, little controlling narcissist who wouldn’t know real love if it presented itself, ass out in a Nixon mask, at your door.”

Another silence, then came the crocodile tears. Bev stared at Eddie with a face that said, ‘stand your ground.’

“If you don’t stop calling, I’ll get a restraining order. If I see you at my work or you show up at my home, I’ll call the fucking cops without hesitation.”

And then he hung up, flinging his phone down on the table behind him.

Bev cheered for him, hugged him, and told him to block her. He got incredibly drunk that night.

Now he stood in his apartment, tiny, barely decorated, and cursed with stupid blue accents. _I wouldn’t know where to start._

He’s glad Sonia’s dead. He’s glad he broke Myra’s heart.

He felt guilt. He felt afraid.

He didn’t care.

_Nothing fucking matters, not even me._

He turned on the radio and changed out of his work clothes.

An affected voice sang over an infectious bass riff, _“It must be the lesson/ Hidden deep inside/ It must be the lesson/ So roll the tide_.” 

Eddie loved this station, mostly because he loved the DJ’s music taste. What made him love it more was that he knew the DJ. 

Well, sort of. He _sort of_ knew the DJ. He knew Sandy Loveland, who knew Bev, who, of course, knew Eddie. They’ve met a few times before and he was always so god damn _charming._ And not in the creepy, Clooney-ish, I’m-doing-this-to-get-something-from-you kind of way, either. He was just naturally, unintentionally a people person. _Goofy_ is the way Eddie would describe him but in the least insulting way possible.

“ _And that was ‘_ Kick in the Eye’ _by Bauhaus,”_ the DJ faded out the song, “ _Before I play my last few for tonight, I want to remind everyone to keep their eye out for black ice if you’re on the road; We don’t need another car crash holding up traffic into or out of the city. Next up, you’ll hear_ ‘Eighties’ _by Killing Joke, ‘_ Fashion’ _by Bowie, and, lastly, ‘_ Rock the Casbah’ _by The Clash. Then, you’ll be subjected to the dulcet tones of Mike Hanlon and his eerily calm mix. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel! This’s been Richie Tozier, signing off._ ”

The music faded in, distorted guitar. 

Eddie wondered if he already had Richie’s number— he could probably get it off Bev if he asked… 

_Later_. He told himself.

He’ll cross that bridge later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beverly’s studio was lined with floor to ceiling shelves that held everything from noxious chemicals to a few yards of pure white Sherpa. Long wood tables took up real estate against the rest of the walls, looking like organized chaos. Bev’s planning table stood in the dead center of the room so she was able to frantically circle it if need be. To top it all off, the studio sported three steel doors. One for the outside entrance, the other connected to the building above it, and the third, situated closer to the first door, lead to what Bev called her “Murder Room”. It was a tiny room fitted with an industrial sink, adequate ventilation, a floor drain, and its very own meat hooks. 

It was a strange place, the studio, the busyness made it inviting in spite of the hyper-clinical slab walls, unforgiving gray floors, and bright white overheads. 

Eddie stood warming his hands over the loud space-heater. Luckily, Bev heard him knock over it and the blasting radio which she went to turn down after opening the door for him.

“What’s up, Kasper? Finally, come to enact your revenge?” She flopped down on her awkwardly placed couch, stuffed between a corner and a filing cabinet. 

“Not yet, Martian,” He sat across from her, rather uncomfortably, on a high steel stool. “I need a favor.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Oh, Eddie Corleone came to ask me for a favor?” She did a bad Brooklyn accent, “Need me to kill a man for you, boss?”

“Shut up, this is serious!” 

She called his bluff, “Is it, really?”

“N-no. It depends on what you consider serious.”

“Hit me, babe.”

“You—Uh, you know Richie Tozier, right?”

“Yeah, I know him.” She got up from her couch to turn off the heater, she stood at her “office” which is just a corkboard and various papers, pens, and a _lot_ of sticky notes.

“You think you could introduce me to him?” One of Eddie’s biggest hang-ups in life is asking for things, he loathed it. Even the simplest things— even if someone _offered_ he felt guilty about it. 

“Oh, you have a _crush_ don’t you?” Bev lit up.

“No!”

“Yeah, you do, you’re getting _red_!”

Eddie groaned, Bev went on, “Oh my god, have you even ever _seen_ him before or, is it just a voice thing? Holy shit, Eddie, do you have a voice kink?”

“Beverly _Elvira_ Marsh, of _course,_ I’ve _seen_ him! He was at your birthday party last year that’s how I fucking _met_ him!” 

“Shit,” she laughed, “I’ll set you up if you do something for me in return.”

He tried to act like he wasn’t absolutely gagging for this man’s number, “What is it.” 

She reached for a shelf and grabbed an inconspicuous paper bag, “Give him this.”

“What? Wait—”

Bev ignored him and scribbled his number _and_ address and a scrap paper, “Here,” 

Eddie stammered and hesitated to take the note, it felt like a huge intrusion.

She read his expression clearly, “Take it, Ed. It’s fine, I needed to get this over to him today, anyways.” she shoved the bag on him, not giving him time to protest, “If you want to meet him, take these to his place; I’ll be killing two birds with one stone without even doing anything.”

“Beverly, I don’t think he’d _appreciate_ some random jerk showing up at his door with a fucking _suspicious_ paper bag.” 

She laughed and patted Eddie on the shoulder, “Look, I’ll call him and say you’re coming. That make you feel better?”

“Yes. Yes it does.” He said in earnest.

“So you’ll do it?” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He turned to leave but Bev rushed to open the door for him. When walking to his car, Bev kept the door open and called, “Oh, and Eddie?” 

He turned.

“You’re not some jerk,” she paused, he looked touched, “you’re _my_ jerk.” 

He frowned his overstanded, almost cartoonishly deep frown and flipped off Bev from the sidewalk.

She laughed and waved goodbye, “Good luck with your crush, darling!”

“It’s _not a crush_!” Eddie called, but it was too late, Bev’s door was already closed and Eddie stood alone in the snow, a little cold, and carrying a mysterious rattling bag.

They were tapes. The bag was full of tapes. Eddie would never admit that he peaked but he wanted to make sure he was smuggling drugs. At first, it was a quick look, a brief study to assess the situation. Then, Eddie got _curious_. He reached down into the bag and pulled one out. 

Blue construction paper lined the inside of the jewel case, tracklist written in red pen— Bev’s handwriting. Eddie flipped it over, the masking tape label read ‘THRASH!!!!!’. He chuckled. 

He’ll leave it at that, he told himself. _I’m not nosy, I won’t snoop._

Edward _was_ nosy, he liked knowing things, not to use against people but just to _know,_ you know? It took all his self control to not, at least, look at the labels of the rest of the cassettes. 

Sooner or later, he was outside Richie’s place. He would’ve waited longer, out of pure anxiety, to buzz the door but it was fucking cold out. Eddie rocked on his heels, slightly, listening to the tapes shift in the bag. He all but hypnotized himself with this sensory combination; he snapped out of it when Richie opened the door.

Richie looked kind of like a beaver, if a beaver was 6’3, vaguely sexy, had bad eyesight and wore pajama pants in public, presumably, for attention.

 _He’s so_ broad _. Tall…fluffy… he could smother me_ . _And, god, that jawline..._

Eddie could really only form half-thoughts at this moment. 

He could only imagine what he looked like staring up at him from the second step: doe eyed, red nosed, messy haired, probably covered in fallen snow. Perish the thought, he assumed he looked untrustworthy.

He shook himself out of his daze, “Uh, Bev sent me.” He tried his best to sound like a normal human being having a normal, not creepy, human interaction. Was it successful? Who’s to say.

“What?” 

“Beverly. Didn’t she call you? She said she would.” He got closer up the stoop, so he didn’t feel the need to shout anymore. 

“She didn’t, man.” 

“Motherfucker.” Eddie hissed.

Richie snorted, “So, she unloaded this on you?” He gestured to the bag. 

“Ah, yeah,” he handed it to him, fully prepared for that to be the end of the interaction so Eddie could go home, curl up into a ball, and die.

“Dude, you want some coffee?” He didn’t seem phased.

“What?” 

“I mean, you look cold.”

He barely processed any of the interaction, not for lack of trying, “Oh, sure— yeah, thanks.” 

“Come on in.”

Richie’s place wasn’t messy, per say, though that was the first thought Eddie had when walking in. It was just _lived in_ . Plants filled every other corner, dark wood shelves were stacked with every piece of media known to man, blankets piled on part of the sofa… and everything was so _colorful_. Oranges, pinks, reds, greens, it was a feast for the eyes. And, to be frank, Eddie was jealous. Not since he lived with Bev did his place look so full and, for all intents and purposes, homely. 

Eddie kicked the snow off his shoes before following Richie into the kitchen, not taking off his coat, just yet.

“What’s your name again?” He pulled a bear shaped mug from the cupboard.

“It’s Eddie.” He watched him pour the ground coffee into the filter and put on the kettle. His hands were big but he moved so swift and lightly. Maybe it’s the familiarity of being in your own space. But Eddie was alway heavy handed no matter where he was. 

“Right, sorry, I know we’ve met before.” He turns and leans back on the counter while the water boils, “I’m just shit with names. You’re face though, I couldn’t forget that.”

Richie read the shock on Eddie’s face, “Oh, fuck, sorry, that was creepy, wasn’t it?”

Eddie vehemently disagreed, “No, no, I’m flattered. I mean, maybe it’s a little weird but,” he shrugged, “I’m into it.”

_Phrasing, god damnit!_

Richie chuckled, “Hot.” 

_That’s a joke_ , Eddie reminded himself, _only a joke and not a confession._ He laughed, too.

The kettle screamed and Richie pulled it off the stove, pouring the blisteringly hot water over the grounds, through the filter. 

“How do you take it?” He said pulling the sugar jar from the corner of the counter.

“Straight black.” Eddie responded.

“You’re a maniac,” He slid him the mug. 

_Why does he have to be so sexy? What does he gain from it?_

“Ha.” Was all Eddie could manage.

Richie contemplated and ultimately decided to make himself a cup, as well. “You’re married, right?”

“Engaged and, uh, not anymore. It didn’t work out.”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Eddie shrugged. He watched the man pour water over the filter again. 

He takes his coffee with lots of cream, no sugar, Eddie noted. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Richie hesitated, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Didn’t it work out.” He raised the mug to his lips.

Eddie thought about lying but, “Because I’m gay.”

Richie choked, and Eddie was suddenly on high alert, assessing his immediate exits. 

Richie backtracked, “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. That’s one hell of a reason. I just...didn’t know that about you.”

His voice got a hard edge, “Why would you? We don’t know each other.”

Richie shrugged, “Well, queer people usually hang out with other queer people, I just assumed you where the outlier. There’s always one.”

“A valid assumption; so, now it’s you?”

“What’s me?”

“You’re the outlier, now.”

“You think I’m _straight_?” 

It was Eddie’s turn to choke. 

He did eventually end up taking off his jacket, as well as staying at Richie’s place for over an hour after that. 

_He said he couldn’t forget my face,_ Eddie thought. The idea of that warmed his chest. The man he couldn’t forget didn’t forget him either. 

Eddie forgot what romantic love felt like. 

_Do I feel romantic love for him?_

It’s possible.

They argued most of the time he was there but it mostly consisted of Richie saying something dumb to purposefully get Eddie riled up and Eddie buying into it like a sucker.

“All I’m saying is that _‘Mulaney’_ should’ve had more than one season,” Richie said, putting away the cassettes. Eddie was on the couch, jacketless and gesturing wildly with his half empty coffee mug.

“It was a fucking _hack_ show that tried to ride the coattails of _‘Seinfeld’_ 20 years too goddamn late!”

“That’s the point, Eds. It’s the layers of irony. Mulaney’s a genius.”

“Maybe so but, you have bad fucking taste. And don’t call me Eds.”

“Okay, Eddie-Spaghetti, the man who had a glowing review of my music selection.” 

“Taste in music and taste in TV are two very different things, Richard.”

“Media is media, darling.”

“Fuck off.”

Richie could keep that dumb smirk off his face, which, in turn, made Eddie blush bright red. Even thinking about it while driving home, he was overcome with giddiness. Even if nothing developed romantically, Eddie was glad he made a new friend. Talking about it like that made him feel like a kid but maybe that’s what he deserved, the lawless fun that came with hitting it off with someone unexpectedly well. Finding someone who, if you believe in fate, you were always supposed to meet.

“Hey, you wanna do this again?” Richie was still holding the door open for Eddie, who was halfway out. He seemed in no rush to close it despite the frigid cold.

“What do you mean?” _Surely, he couldn’t mean…_

“You know,” Richie gestured vaguely, “Hang out. I like you.”

Eddie beamed up at him like he had just won the lottery, “Definitely! Yeah, I’d love to do this again.”

“Rad, you have my number, call me whenever.” 

Eddie nodded and a love laden silence fell between them, neither wanted to break the bond of conversation and move on with their night. A harsh wind blew, doing the inevitable for them. They both shivered.

Eddie was the first to speak up, “I should let you go, it’s getting cold.”

Richie snorts, “Four inches of snow on the ground and this guy says it’s ‘ _getting’_ cold. A true northerner, this one!”

“You know what I mean, dickhead!”

“Never go below the Mason-Dixon Line, Eds. You’d melt into a puddle and _then_ who would I have to annoy?”

“You’ve got other friends.”

“Yeah, but none of them get as fiery as you do, Eddie, my love.”

His heart flipped, “Yeah, yeah. I’m leaving now, Tozier.”

Richie winked, and shut his door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie, for the rest of that week, went over the endless wealth of things he and Richie could do together, all of them, he decided, seemed uncool.

“Why the fuck do you have to be cool?” Bev asked over the phone.

“I want to impress him.”

“C’mon, he’s _Richie_.”

“I don’t know him like you do! I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Trust me, Kasper, you’ve probably already thoroughly impressed Richie just by being a cunt. And even if you haven’t, he’s got this habit of not giving up on people, even if they’re markedly ‘uncool’. Not to mention, we’re all in our thirties, we’re already losers by default.” 

“I’m not a cunt.”

“Yeah, you are. So am I, that’s why we’re bound for life. That, and the organ harvesting business.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Did you know it takes, on average, 11 times for a person to permanently leave the abusive person in their life? Eddie thought about leaving constantly when he was with Myra. Before they were dating, he tried to stop talking to her _however_ , she was very persistent. While they were dating, he attempted to break up with her gently _however_ , she was willfully ignorant or downright refused to leave him. He blamed himself for not being clear enough.

Going no-contact was hard for Eddie because, no matter what, he never wanted to let anyone down, especially if he thought they were in need of literally _anything_ from him _._

 _I couldn’t do it with mom,_ he thought, _now I can’t do it with Myra._

He’d unblocked her number earlier that day. 

She had gotten in contact with him in a roundabout way and from that message alone, he was worried enough to call her. 

“This whole thing is making me as bad as you were when we first met.” She told him.

“You’re suicidal?”

“No, Edward, I’m _vulnerable_.” 

“I don’t think it’s good for you to seek out the person who made you feel that way in the first place. Why not talk to your sister or Annie?”

“Because you’re the only one I think truly understands me. You know I want closure.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“I could say the same to you.”

_What the fuck was that supposed to mean?_

He sighed, “I can’t be the only person who understands you. We’ve been through a lot together but it’s not like our relationship was any good.”

“How could you say that? I gave you my heart and soul and you did _nothing_ but take from me and make me weaker! I’ve tried so hard to make this work and all you’ve done was use me and throw me away like I was nothing!”

“I- I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you—“

“If you were sorry— if you were _truly apologetic_ — you would’ve put in the effort to make it work but you _didn’t_ , did you? Jesus, what would your mother say if she were here?”

He hung up immediately.

It was a moment of self-preservation that surprised Eddie as well as welled pride in him. 

The moment passed, as they all do, and guilt took over as he sat alone at his table.

He took up his phone and texted Myra, 

**I’m sorry for hanging up, but don’t mention Sonia to me.**

**That’s a low blow and you know it.**

He silenced any notifications from her, promising himself to only come back to it when he was ready. 

That Saturday, Eddie decided, rather suddenly, to redecorate. He woke up, achingly aware of everything he ever considered pathetic about his life up until that point. At times, he thought of his existence as a windowless, doorless room. And he could either try to make a life out of the four walls and scraps of plywood or he could strong-arm a hole in the wall and see what’s on the other side.

He was in the process of strong-arming (or, maybe he’s already free and all he has to do is simply realize that he is as such).

_I fucking refuse to live in a home that looks like a blind Mormon designed it._

He got out of bed and called Beverly.

“You’re helping me rearrange this place.” 

“Oh, you’re finally sprucing up the bachelor pad?”

“For the love of god, don’t call it that.”

“Then what should I call it?”

“Literally anything else.”

“You’re giving me too much power, Kaspbrak. I’ll think it over while I’m getting you some chachkies.”

“ _Chachkies?!”_

“ _Tasteful_ chachkies!”

“Swear on your life, Marsh!”

“I swear on _my_ life _and_ yours.”

He grumbled, “Alright. Do you have any house paint?”

“Depends. What color?”

“Whatever you have, as long as it’s not blue.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in an hour and a half.”

“Cool.”

Bev knocked on the door an hour and forty-five minutes later, holding one end of a laundry basket filled with assorted things, but she wasn’t alone. With her, holding the other end, was Richie Tozier. Bev stood there, looking very cheeky. 

“Hey, Eds!” Richie said. 

Eddie did his best to neutralize his expression but his wide eyes and grin gave it away, “Hey, Rich...Bev. Come in.”

“Hey, I hope it’s okay I brought Rich around,” Bev stated, nonchalantly, “I couldn’t carry all of this by myself, you know.”

_Beverly, you’re so awful in such a particular way._

They set the basket down under a window, where the kitchen tile meets the living room carpet. 

Richie stretched his back until it popped, “Yeah, apparently she couldn’t pick things out herself either, I had to help.”

Eddie made a startled noise.

“That was a _secret_ , loudmouth! Plus, I like to have a second opinion.”

Eddie scoffed, “As _if_! You hate it when people tell you you’re wrong, Marsh.”

“Telling me I’m wrong and giving me light suggestions are _very_ different, you’re just an asshole.”

“Not my fault you think red and green look good together. I simply enjoy voicing my correct opinions.”

“ _Ha!”_ She waved him off.

“It’s nice to see he’s like this with everyone.” Richie commented.

“Only with people I like.” _Bold move, but will it pay off?_

That goofy-ass smile spread across Richie’s face, again and all Eddie wanted to do was kiss him. 

_I’ve known him for such a short time, I can’t do that._

Bev, being the willing third wheel, took it upon herself to break the silence, “Jesus, Ed, your place really _is_ sad.”

“Bev, you’ve _been_ here before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never really looked at it. It’s like how you don’t look into the sun”

Richie started looking around, too, “It’s kinda like a college dude and his WASP mom were forced to compromise on every aesthetic decision only to make something worse, together than what they could’ve done individually.”

Eddie laughed, despite himself, “Alright, alright, let’s get to _fixing_ that then, please.”

They started by rearranging the furniture in a way that made the room feel like a more enclosed space, despite the sparseness of it. Eddie made a note to himself to get some plants and an armchair or something to fill out the composition. They broke out the chachkies which were more or less visual padding.

“It needs something else,” Eddie mumbled, it still looked like a facsimile of a home to him. 

Bev sprung up off the couch, “Oh! I found you a rug!”

“ _Found?”_

“Yeah! It’s back at my place, I can’t believe I forgot it!”

“Do you want me to come with?” Richie asked.

“No, I don’t live far and it’s not that heavy. You two take a break.”

“Beverly—“

“No, you’re not protesting, Ed Boy, you need this rug.” She was already heading out the door.

“At the very least, tell me this isn’t another stoop find.”

“It’s so sad you don’t know the joys of stoop scavenging!” She shut the door and, with that, he and Richie were alone. 

It’s not as if it’s their first time being alone, infact, since they first officially met, they’ve talked almost every day. They like each other, they actively wanted to be around each other, so why was _this_ so awkward.

“God, Bev couldn’t be subtle if her life depended on it.” Richie sighed, and sat at the foot of the couch. Eddie followed suit. 

“Nope. She’s always been overt with her meddling.” They were, at most, two feet away from each other. Both, too close and not close enough.

“How long have you known her?”

“Since freshman year of college. She was my only friend for a while.” Eddie froze up at the unplanned sincerity but pushed through, “What about you?”

“I only met Bev about 2 years ago when she moved into the studio a few blocks from the radio station. We met on accident. I got locked out of the station and she saw me banging my head against the wall.” He chuckled, “she asked what was wrong, I told her, then she said she could pick locks. And, like, I had to go on ten minutes so, obviously I was fucking desperate—“

“So, you let some strange woman help you _break into_ _your_ _work_ _building_?”

“Yeah, Eds, keep up.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, “You make such poor decisions.”

“Well, it got me here, so my decision making can’t be _that_ bad. Anyway, she asked if she could help, I said yes and she whipped out this crazy little lock pick kit from her bag and _boom,_ she gets me in, no problemo! I told her I owed her a life debt, and she said, ‘just help me move a couch and we’re even-stevens.’”

“And you’ve been friends ever since?”

“Yup. It’s a classic meet cute: she helped me break-and-enter, and I helped her move furniture.” He fake swooned, “I think she only wants me for my brawn.” 

_Who wouldn’t?_

Richie wasn’t jacked but he was built like a brick house with obvious natural strength. 

“But, really,” He went on, “I’m lucky she was there. I was on thin ice already for being too ugly for radio.”

“Whoever said that is a fucking idiot.”

“Oh, c’mon, man. I’m kidding, mostly, like, I know I’m not _that_ bad but I’m not a trophy either. _You_ , however, _you’re_ a trophy husband anybody would be stoked to show off.”

“What?”

“You’re sexy! Y’know, with your big eyes, crazy cheekbones, and dimples.”

Eddie regarded himself as looking like a basset hound with a rat face, if that rat could win second in a Tony Perkins look alike contest. But, like, a _very_ _close_ second. 

“You’re attractive, you know?” Eddie insisted.

“I don’t see it.” Richie shrugged

“Shut up and take the compliment! I’m not lying when I say from the moment I saw you my brain fucking _melted_ out of my ears.”

“Hm, I do tend to make people brain dead.”

“You’re goddamn right you do.”

He smirked, “You’re too nice to me, Eddie-Spaghetti.”

“I’m not nice, I’m just telling you the truth. And if you call me Eddie-Spaghetti one more time, I will _not_ hesitate to put you in an iron maiden.”

“I take it back, Spaghetti, you’re a mean little bitch.” Richie admired.

The affection among them swirled and sparkled as they gazed, a little too long, into each other's eyes. Eyes that quickly flitted down to lips then back up. There was only a brief moment between Eddie thinking ‘ _I want to kiss this fool’_ and him _actually_ doing it, unbeknownst to his body, mind and everything else besides the basest of instincts that compelled his every nerve.

The kiss was relatively quick, though Richie was able to cup the side of Eddie’s face before they resolved and broke apart. His hand stayed. Eddie was blushing, granted, he had been blushing since Rich called him a mean little bitch. 

_That’s embarrassing, I’m a grown adult man, I shouldn’t be blushing._

“You’re all red!” Richie laughed.

Eddie pulled away from his hand, trying to hide his face, “Shut up!”

“No, no,” Richie smiled, “It’s cute! Cute, cute, cute!”

Eddie’s small laugh turned into a groan rather quickly, he turned away from him. Richie gave him a concerned look, trying to assess the reaction. “Hey,” he almost whispered, “look at me.”

He did as requested, “What?” His voice was just as soft as Richie’s.

“Nothing, I just wanted you to look at me.” Richie smiled. 

And, then, Eddie kissed him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of days later, he finally got around to cracking open the mystery paint cans. None of the colors were what he wanted. He sighed, deciding to make some breakfast and deal with it later.

He ended up putting the cans under the sink, getting dressed, and journeying, on foot, to the hardware store. He picked out a color called ‘ _Hyacinth’_ , a dark violet. 

When he got home, he covered up the blue sections of the wall with primer, setting the violet aside. He was happy enough with the blank slate for the time being. 

One unseasonably warm day that February, Eddie forced himself to go out and get plants from a local nursery. Just a few small, exceptionally hard to kill, ones. The rest he planned on buying were big and fake because he knew if he killed a ficus he would never forgive himself. 

_Start slow. Don’t get overzealous._

It made the apartment look _good_. Far better than he’d ever thought it would be. With the addition of Bev’s absurdly large street rug, some art, and better curtains, he felt like he actually existed. 

He was out of purgatory, at least a little bit.

  
  
  
  



End file.
